


Wait, What?

by AdelaideE



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Sillyfic, hangovers, romantic negotiations, secret agent mary, slight crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaideE/pseuds/AdelaideE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Really Molly!  When I pictured you using that crop on me, I didn’t think it would be like this!”</p>
<p>Upon reading the Births, Deaths, & Marriages, Molly learns that Sherlock has once again been presumptuous.  She does not take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Um, hello scary new fandom! I wrote a few Sherlolly fics last year, just for my own amusement. Seeing Cumberbatch in "Hamlet" recently inspired me to polish some up and post them for public enjoyment, that is, if you do enjoy them…ehm, yes.
> 
> This was also inspired by real life instances, as well as a few references that some might get if they enjoy the same silly romance novels as I do.

 

* * *

 

“Molly?”

“Sherlock?  What are you—why are you out of breath?”

“I’m in pursuit of that thief who just ran past you, whom you should’ve noticed given the proximity…oh.  Your eyes are leaking.  What is it this time, Molly?  Was there a sad puppy in an advert?  For the last time, you needn’t worry about creatures if they’re cartoons—”

“Peter—oh, never mind.  Shouldn’t you give chase before he gets away?”

“The street fair, the police station, and the clown car—coulrophobia, trite—should direct his turns until, through a lack of options, he arrives at that northwestern corner in about five or eight minutes.  So. 

Tears in a Tesco’s car park.  A new romantic low, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock, if you mock me right now, I swear I will castrate you with a letter opener.  Any way, you wouldn’t care that Peter and I just broke up in front of the Nutella display.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“…he’s a slow one.”

“Peter?”

“No, the thief.  If he’d hurry up, I’d have a decent reason to abandon you and your…damp mourning.  Because, in moments of high distress, you tend to turn your inner monologues into outer—“

“I mean, yeah, sure, totally reasonable for him to mention that he doesn’t want kids now, before we really got serious—but couldn’t he have mentioned that on the first date?  I know it’s not the thing, to bring up reproduction so soon, but I’m of a certain age! I can’t waste time.  Why can’t blokes just have signs or announcements, you know?  About their relationship goals?”

“I…can’t tell if you’re being rhetorical…?’

 “Like, ‘Just a summer fling, love’ or ‘Marriage, but no kids, thank you,’ or ‘Must commit to live-in mother,’ or—“

“Or ‘Has family history of heart disease and a five minute run will do me in’?”

“Well, that’s unreasonably specific, but yeah—oh, oh god, your thief’s collapsed, Sherlock!  Come on!”

“I _knew_ my calculations couldn’t have been that far off if not for a hidden circumstance…”

“Sherlock!  Shut up and dial 999!”

 

 


	2. Wait, What?

* * *

 

**_Two months later…_ **

Molly Hooper blearily cracked open the one eye that was not currently pressed into her flowery patterned pillow, and met the slightly narrowed, very judgmental gaze focused on her.

“Okay,” she murmured quietly, in respect to her aching head, “perhaps saying yes to girls night on a Wednesday was not the best idea I’ve ever had.”

Those horrible, beautifully colored eyes narrowed further.

“But it was Mary! We haven’t had proper girl time, Mary and I,” Molly excused herself.  The two women didn’t know each other very well, and Molly had a feeling that a good many others had probably been called before her, but the woman’s plight stirred up some pity in the pathologist’s heart. 

Apparently, Sherlock was in a strop last evening.  He had commandeered the Watson household, needing equal parts comfort from baby Helena, and sympathetic agreement from Helena’s parents.  Mary, knackered and frustrated from dealing with her daughter’s current struggle with growing teeth, cleared out of the house within twenty minutes, in search of reasonable companionship and succor.

Molly knew what it was like to be displaced by the consulting detective and sympathised.  She also might have been the reason Sherlock Holmes was in a strop in the first place.

Her face flamed.  No.  Best not to think of that now.

“Besides,” she added, her voice hoarse but sensible, “I’m off today. AND I’m very certain I’m never going to drink a drop of alcohol again.”

He snorted.  It was Molly’s turn to narrow her eyes.

“Well, you’re just pessimistic, mate,” she told her disapproving cat as she heaved herself up and patted his head sloppily.  Oh lord.  The room fairly tilted on its axis and Molly Hooper thought it very impolite. 

“I pay for you,” she informed her unstable flat menacingly as she crept slowly to the loo.  “Behave.”

She turned the taps and waited for the water to warm.  At least the mirror was stable as Molly assessed the damage.  Well, she wouldn’t win any beauty pageants any time soon, but on the bright side, her face wasn’t as awful as she felt.  A little ruddy, perhaps, as alcohol tended to flush her fair skin, but aside from that, Molly was surprised she didn’t pull last night.  Her honey-coloured hair still held some curl, and, from what she could see of the remaining make up that hadn’t rubbed off, she had done decently with her eye shadow despite her hurry. 

“I would,” she laughed at her reflection before starting her shower.  Apparently, last night she had set her mobile in the soap holder.  She knew this because she was having a job trying to work up a lather when the block in her hand started ringing. 

“Hello—oh god—oh Mary, wait, the water’s going to—damn, hang on—“  Towels!  Where were her towels?!  Grateful that Toby was not present to think even lower of her, Molly gingerly bent to grab the rug and wrap it around herself.

“Are you okay?” Mary asked, sounding amused. And not hung over.  Slag.

Well no, she wasn’t a slag.  Mary Watson was actually alright.  Molly vaguely remembered John texting his wife that the coast was clear and she could return home if she liked, but Mary had chosen instead to stay with her. 

“The mobile was the soap and I’ve lost all my towels,” Molly whinged, sitting on the bath tub rim.  “Plus my flat keeps tilting here and there.  Rude.  Rude!” she repeated to her walls.

“Is it possible that you’re still drunk?”

Molly weighed this possibility and confidently said, “No.  No…  Maybe…  Yes.”

“We had our last drinks ages ago, love!” 

Molly’s only response was a resentful grunt. 

“Okay,  I was going to suggest we meet at a café to deal with the crisis, but best stay put, yeah?”

“Is there a crisis?”

“Er…well…Follow these steps very carefully, love.  Are you listening carefully?” 

Molly nodded.

“Molly, are you listening?”

She nodded vigorously, and regretted it. 

“MOLLY!”

“Aye aye captain,” Molly barked. 

“One, make yourself some very strong coffee.  Two, read the Times, specifically the Births, Deaths, & Marriages.  And three, stay there; I can pop over ‘round lunchtime.  I’ve got to wait til Mrs. Hudson’s done with her errands before she can mind Helena.”

“Can I finish my shower first?” Molly asked suspiciously.  Mary laughed and then told her to expect her in an hour or so.

An hour?  Molly saw the time on the mobile screen after the call ended.  Why hadn’t Toby bothered her for breakfast?  Maybe he was being nice after sensing her hangover.  Lovely animal.  Normally he awoke her at the same time like a slinking, furry rooster. 

Rooster?  Why did that sound familiar… 

She tried to follow the instructions closely after she showered, brushed her teeth, and popped some paracetamol .  Molly tucked her poor, wet, and probably cold mobile into her spot in bed and then threw a large shirt and dressing gown on.  She stumbled several times through her kitchen to start her coffee maker, but that was hardly new.  The cleanest her flat had ever been was when Sherlock stayed in hiding with her, because of his boredom and meticulous organisation skills.  Her socks had never been so easy to find before

Her face flamed.  No.  Best not to think of him and him bent over her lingerie drawer and his wondrous arse—wait, what?

Shaking herself, Molly wondered where her laptop went so she could look up this column.  Unfortunately, Toby was using it as a heating pad and she didn’t want to disturb him.  What could be so important?  Hmm…last night Mary had been lamenting the fact that she had married John while Michael Fassbender was still a viable option.  Mr. Rochester probably didn’t have family-hijacking friends, she said.  Magneto was mates with James McAvoy, and that gorgeous Scotsman had lovely manners, from what she could see.  Perhaps the actor had given birth.

She snorted at her own joke as she pulled on her wellies and trudged down her steps for a quick run to the newsagent just outside her building.  For some odd reason, there was quite a queue for the papers this morning.  Even odder than that, somebody thrust the rolled up Times in her hands without expectation of payment.  The stranger just grinned at her and, oddly, took a photograph.

She blinked and shook her head.  Tourists.  They’d photograph anything.

 Molly tiredly thanked the man before returning to her flat, somehow losing possession of her boots along the way.

“All right, all right,” she said, mouth half full of food.  She was alternating between water, coffee, and dry toast.  Lord, they named their child Harry Hipple?  Cruel.  Oh—she had done Petunia Chesworth’s autopsy…an apparently lovely woman with impressive tattoos.  Forthcoming Marriages.

Molly wasn’t at all committed to the task, the spell of drunkenness evaporating in the strengthening sunlight shining through her windows.  All that was left was the hangover, and the hangover wanted her to crawl back into bed.  Her head drooped lower and lower until her nose was smashed against the black print.  Her eyes nearly fluttered shut until they caught sight of the most coincidental pair of abbreviations—

“MR W.S. HOLMES AND MISS M.E. HOOPER”

Molly sat up so fast the chair toppled backwards, and she landed on the hard lino and…cat food?

“Ugh,” she emitted before passing out completely. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Molly?  Molly…”  Distantly, as she floated towards consciousness, Molly realised somebody—sounded like Mary—had been softly calling her name for some time.

“Molly, if you die Sherlock will kill me…Oh good, John, hi!”

She groaned at Mary’s perky volume, and heard the blonde give a relieved sigh at this sign that she was alive.  Then somebody was checking her pulse. 

“What the hell did you do last night?” she heard John demand.  Ah.  That would be his fingers on her neck then. 

“You know…just garden variety things…” Mary murmured innocently.  They sounded near…she guessed John was beside her and his wife was above her head.

“Molly is lying in a ring of wadded towels, inside which somebody has scattered an entire package of cat food,” Sherlock observed flatly.  He sounded slightly far off, as if still near her door.  “Did anybody else note her rubber boots on the stairwell?” 

Oh, had she done that again? Her landlord won’t be pleased.  At least it wasn’t her bra, like the last time she’d been absurdly bladdered. 

Molly tried to ask somebody to take them up for her, but found her mouth disgustingly dry.  Instead of talking, she licked her lips with loud, unattractive smacks.

But he was still speaking.  “Don’t answer, I know you did.  I’m just pointing out how rude it is to leave them there for other people to stumble over.” As he complained, he sounded closer and closer, until she felt him kneel on her other side.    

“You didn’t have to follow me,” Mary pointed out snippily.  “I said that I’d check on Molly if you two wanted to follow up on that lead.”

“Mary…”  Sherlock sounded impatient.  Which meant he sounded like Sherlock.  “What did you persuade her to drink?”

“She only had ciders!”

Despite the bizarre seriousness of the situation, Molly heard chortles.  She emitted a pouty grunt, which only made them laugh a little bit harder.

“Really?” John asked laughingly.  “The lightest of lightweights.”

Oh leave me alone, she thought at them since her tongue felt too thick to properly move.  She hadn’t eaten much yesterday!

“Leave her alone,” Sherlock said defensively, “she’s little.”  That last bit was said sort of…fondly.  Aww!

No!  Bad!  No fuzzy analysis of fuzzy feelings for Sherlock Holmes. 

Her head was swimming, and Molly wanted to focus on stabling that so that she could open her eyes without getting sick on all her guests.

“Judging by the Times on the table, she saw the announcement then…swooned?”

Mary was jiggling Molly’s arms, and Molly slapped at the hands blindly, earning herself another giggle from her friend. 

“Are you not sure that that’s what happened?” John asked, going on Sherlock’s uncertain tone.

“I just didn’t think women do that in real life.  The reasons for the rest of the situation, I’ll confess, escape me.”

“We thought it would be funny to feed Toby like a rooster.”  Silence met Mary’s quiet explanation.  “She said at the pub how he’s very rooster-like and really, when I met him, I had to agree…and we had to make a rooster pen…with the towels…”  She trailed off pathetically. 

It was John who asked the obvious question.  “But why?”

Mary had the gall to giggle a little bit.  “We were discussing a distinct lack of cock in her life.”

OH GOD THEY HAD SAID THAT.  Molly groaned again, followed by an ineffectual “Ssshhh” with a finger to her lips.  Now she didn’t even _want_ to open her eyes.  Nobody paid any attention to her. 

“Mary!” John gasped, ridiculously prim. 

“You kiss your daughter with that mouth?”

“Sorry mums.  Honestly, why is she still on the floor?”

“That is a good point actually,” Sherlock agreed, “here we go—“

Molly was just struggling to blink her eyes open and lift her head when she felt his arms swiftly slide under her knees and shoulders.  She choked on her protests as Sherlock quickly removed her from the filthy floor and into the air. 

Sherlock was carrying her bridal style, just as he had in about half of her fantasies.  She widened her   eyes and observed his pale profile.  His dark hair looked freshly washed and, unlike hers, was curling beautifully.  Honestly, sometimes he was perfection on earth, and other times—during the times he irked her, actually—Molly thought him the weirdest looking man in the kingdom, like an alien and an otter had made a very posh baby.

Whatever.  He was carrying her, of his own volition, and not because she artfully fell into his arms.  And he looked like he was enjoying it!  All she needed was a strong breeze to pull their clothes half off their bodies so they could match the couples on the worn romance novels hidden under her bed.  On her part, it wasn’t as comfortable as she imagined; she was rather too bent up, like an accordion.  And his coat was itchy against her bare legs.  Why was he wearing his coat anyway?  Definitely not cold enough for it today.  For effect then.  Pretentious prick.  Pretentious presumptuous prick.  Pretentious presumptuous praline—wait, hang on, that one didn’t fit—

“Oh, and she’s with us,” he noticed with a slight turn of his head, pleasantly surprised, and effectively bringing her alliterative insults to a halt.  This was probably the friendliest he had ever looked since she met him, but Molly found herself gritting her teeth in the face of his cheerful nonchalance.

“Put.  Me.  Down,” she demanded, in her best impression of, well, him.  His brow furrowed slightly but he complied, his hand hovering on her back as she swayed slightly once he did. 

“Still drunk?” Mary asked sotto voce.

“No,” Molly said as she frowned at the kibble biting into the pads of her feet.  Definitely not drunk, and even the hangover was fleeing in the face of such trying circumstances.  She hugged the dressing gown tightly about her, wondering at what view she gave when they came in.  “Before I decide on my next course of action, I need somebody to answer this question:  Is the forthcoming marriage announcement in the Times referring to…maybe…a Wilfred Stephen Holmes and a Melissa Evelyn Hooper?”

“Didn’t you read the whole thing?” Sherlock inquired cautiously.

“Didn’t make it that far,” Molly said crisply.

Mary looked at John.  John looked at Sherlock.  Sherlock looked at Molly.  Molly looked at the cat food. 

“Anybody can answer,” she offered with a slow shake of her head.  “Absolutely anybody can chime in.”

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “While that theory is not impossible, it is statistically improbable for such a hypothetically named couple to post their announcement in the same issue in which I posted our announcement.”

Mary and John both snorted “Well done,” and, apparently equally surprised and amused by their synchronicity, promptly laughed together like the happiest of idiots.  Even in the rising red haze of her anger, Molly took the time to show a brief grimace of disgust at their marital bliss.  She thought she heard Sherlock mutter, “Oh god,” and he probably rolled his eyes.

For extra confirmation, Sherlock handed her the aforementioned issue, and Molly’s worn eyes fell upon the announcement which had proved so detrimental to her consciousness.

“MR W.S. HOLMES AND MISS M.E. HOOPER:  The engagement is announced between Sherlock, son of Wanda and Timothy Holmes of London, and Margaret, daughter of Patricia and the late Albert Hooper of London.”

Was it very silly to be annoyed that he included his preferred name, but she had to be Margaret?  No, that wasn’t important.  Priorities, Molly, focus.  

“Right,” she accepted this with a set jaw, before marching off.  The tip-tap noise of her cat-food-decorated feet rather ruined the effect.  Still, she held a determined posture as she made her way to her room and nearly slammed the door shut, but left it open a crack so that she might drop some eaves. 

“You’ve done it now,” she heard John warn Sherlock as she dropped the paper on her bed and checked her mobile.  Oh, brilliant.  Text messages and missed calls; mum had been spreading the word then.  Meena’s message was the funniest, as it warned her that Patricia had gone mad and hallucinated some sort of betrothal for her and that Sherlock fella.  Perfect.

“I fail to see the problem,” the big, fluffy haired arse was saying tranquilly.  Molly shook the cat food pellets out of her damp hair, and began to dress in jeans and a long sleeved green blouse.

“You fail to—you’ve asked her out twice, she turned you down twice.  Bow out man!  Have some dignity! Fail to see—“ 

Molly bit back a laugh as she tugged on her clothes.  John continued to mutter under his breath, the scope of his best friend’s lack of social grace stunning him into gibberish once more. 

“You fail to see the problem of springing an engagement announcement on a woman who had no notion for your nefarious spousal designs for her?” Mary remarked glibly.  “Right, of course you didn’t.  John and I are so thick sometimes.  Forgive us, Sherlock.”

Good old Mary, Molly thought she was opened her closet and retrieved a piece of vital equipment.

“You’re forgiven,” The Great Twat replied with apparent sincerity.  Molly quietly opened the bedroom door as the pair squawked indignantly.  He steamrolled over their protests with, “And really, Mary, ‘nefarious spousal designs.’  Molly and I are adults, not panto villains—“

And that was when Molly attacked him with a riding crop.

“How—“ WHACK!

“Dare—“ WHACK!

“You!” Woosh!  He ducked that one.

“Where’s she getting the energy?” Mary wondered.

“Where’d she get the riding crop?” John thought it more important to ask.

“It’s from a costume,” Molly explained tersely just as Sherlock informed them, “She was a jockey for some silly Halloween do her former coworker Caroline threw last year.”

All four stilled at Sherlock’s suspiciously specific answer.  Molly bit her lip when the tall prick just reddened and cleared his throat. 

“It was a bit inaccurate, as Molly had been too heavy to be a successful jockey…at…the…time, that’s going to cause offense, isn’t it?”

“Oooh,” John exhaled with a wince.  For her part, Molly inhaled sharply before commencing with a new round of violence.

Sherlock began a strategic retreat around the furniture and the two amused human beings.  Molly, while still in pursuit, took a brief second to observe he had removed his coat.  Oh, he was wearing his new charcoal suit, with that shirt that matched his eyes.  Shame it was going to get ruined when she beat him to a bloody pulp. 

“This is a horrible prank!”

“It’s not a prank!“

“Well then it’s a cruel experiment!“

“It’s not that either, you daft dwarf!  Ow!”  He had banged into the corner of the kitchen counter.  Sherlock danced with danger every other day, so it incensed but did not surprise Molly that he easily dodged most of her swings.

“How can you embarrass me like this?!”

“You’re going to regret this when I tell you—Jesus Christ!” he yelped as she landed a lucky one on his bum.

“John!  Mary!” he pleaded for help as they warily circled opposite sides of her kitchen table.  The married couple had sat on her sofa for an unobstructed view of the battle.

“No.  Stop,” John offered unenthusiastically.

“Molly, please,” Mary added, tone equally wooden, “have mercy.”

“Oh, you two—“ he snarled before dodging another swing.  Fed up and out of breath, Sherlock stood his ground in front of her fridge, hands up in surrender.  “Really Molly!  When I pictured you using that crop on me, I didn’t think it would be like this!”

“Heyoo!” John chirped, gleefully looking as if Christmas had come early.  Mary shushed him as she tried to smother her giggles.

Molly threw the crop at his face and stifled the urge to stomp her foot.  Oh, somebody had swept up the mess she and Mary had made in the meantime.  That was nice. 

No. Focus.  Sherlock was playing a horrid prank or conducting a heartless experiment and he didn’t mind the riding crop recreationally, which was information that could be useful later—wait, what?

“Now, are we back to being adults?  If so, I can explain the situation.“

“Oh, I’ll explain the situation,” Molly heatedly interrupted.  She was pissed.  SHE WAS PISSED.  Not only for whatever underhanded stunt this announcement was—but for the regression he had caused.  They were friends!  Real, proper friends!  She stopped her stammer, he stopped his asinine comments, and really, things were nice and settled!  Sure, it was a bit rocky after the whole drug thing and then the incommunicado period during which she was safely ensconced in Scotland whilst he and John resolved the resurrected Moriarity (twins! That was a twist!) case.  But after!  After Mary had her baby and Sherlock needed more help with John out of commission—they shared Hobnobs, damn it!  You don’t solve crimes and share Hobnobs and then pull such a cruel trick on a friend!

She almost said all of this, but her ire and wounded feelings stalled her tongue, to the point where she only blurted, “I drank enough last night to kill a Russian bear because you hijacked the Watson household—side note, Mary I do not understand your physiology at the moment and I suspect you’re some kind of mutant—“

“Just ciders, Molly, and not even that many,” Mary gently reminded her, but Molly waved those words away.

“I popped out to get a copy of a newspaper and was handed one—oh my god those were journalists!  THERE WERE JOURNALISTS SHERLOCK!  OUTSIDE MY FLAT!”

“Incidentally, how did you scatter them?” John asked Mary.  “There weren’t any when we came.”

“Oh, I said there was a bomb,” Mary replied happily.  John automatically nodded before he realised what his wife said and then looked outside worriedly. 

“’Journalist’ is a generous term for the gossipmongers who—“

“Not now,” John coughed and Sherlock swallowed his words.

“In the past month you have asked me out twice with no romantic notice whatsoever—“

“I beg your pardon—“ Sherlock began, aghast.

John was inconsolable.  “You mean I had to suffer through all that flirting and you _didn’t even know_?”

The ladies in the room were eyeing the men with disbelieving frowns.  “What flirting?” they demanded in accidental sync, and giggled at their unity.  Sherlock and John huffed and rolled their eyes at such female tittering before they answered.

“Oh come on,” John continued incredulously, “Don’t say that you didn’t notice the staring—“

Mary took that one.  “He’s always staring!  She probably thought he was in his Mind Palace!” Molly nodded, grateful for her staunch defender. 

“The No More Mister Nice Guy attitude when it came to your dates,” John added with a wagging finger.

“Had there ever been a Mister Nice Guy attitude for my dates?” Molly wanted to know dubiously, feeling slightly put out that she had missed it.  Mary tapped her nose in a silent show of support.

John waved this aside.  “He’s been invading your personal space more.”

“I just thought he didn’t see me.  He rarely looks around—or, in my case, down— to see if anything’s in his way.  I think he just assumes all of London parts like the Red Sea, when, really, he just shoves into people.”

“Do not speak of me as if I weren’t here,” Sherlock ordered her, quite tetchy, and Molly suppressed a laugh.  

“It’s true though,” Mary interjected.  “That’s why you tripped over her wellies in the stairwell.” 

“Thank you all for your wrong assessments!” Sherlock cut in sharply.  In a much calmer voice, he added, “Besides, that used to be totally true.  Now it is only mostly true.  While I rarely spare my valuable attention to the unimportant, I have made Molly a person of whom I maintain total awareness.”

After taking a moment to let it sink in—bless, he was so irritatingly wordy sometimes—Molly bleated bashfully, “Oh stop!”  It was hopelessly involuntary, just her inner thoughts making themselves outer thoughts without her permission, and she might’ve melted in embarrassment had not John also said, loudly and teasingly, “Oh stop!” to his best mate.  The two doctors looked at each other in surprise, and genuinely laughed at this ongoing silliness.   If his eyes had any heating capabilities, Sherlock’s scowl would’ve scorched them into two black spots on the floor. 

“He’s been asking for your input more,” John offered after clearing his throat.  “And usually before he asks others.”

“Well, yeah, but I figured that was because you lot have finally recognised how terribly clever I am,” Molly said without a hint of jest or irony.

Mary murmured to John, “Oh you’re right.  They do belong together.”  Her husband thanked her, faintly smug.   Sherlock smirked and pretended to scratch his upper lip to conceal it when Molly’s eyes narrowed at him.

Molly didn’t know what they all meant, but she had half a mind to be offended.  “Don’t you dare gang up on me!” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.  Now.  What about all of my innuendoes?” Sherlock asked triumphantly.  They did not bother to wait for Molly to ask for elaboration, as her raised eyebrows and slack jaw spoke enough about her ignorance to this supposed wordplay.

“Yeah, and he had some good ones, for a beginner.”  John began ticking them off each finger.  “That bit about the overflowing graduated cylinder, that comment about wanting to explore the inner Molly—“

Mary hooted at that one, and Molly quietly explained they had been discussing the intricacies of performing autopsies on smaller adults.

“That one I said about burning your Bunsen was especially flirtatious,” the consulting detective finished with a cunning smile.

With the three silently demanding why she hadn’t picked up on these very heavy hints, Molly felt herself blush until her ears burned.  Listed in detail like that, the odd coquetry now appeared obvious.  But…

“It’s Sherlock,” Molly declared helplessly.  “If Ned from the canteen said that rubbish, of course I’d pick up on it!  But…he’s—you’re precise, in your words.  I just hadn’t expected that sort of talk from you and, truth to tell, any double entendre you might’ve dropped at Bart’s was genuinely received as a single entendu.” 

“Well,” Sherlock sighed after the pregnant pause, “had I known they were falling on deaf ears, I wouldn’t have composed so many medical chat up lines.”

Molly nearly felt sorry for him.  The shoe was on the other foot now, she supposed.  She thought back to when she had summoned the courage to ask him out for coffee.  The only thing harder, she realised then, than being rejected, was not being seen as a romantic option at all. 

But she wasn’t even a romantic option now!  According to his text, she was a cog in the “transition.”  According to his email, her greatest asset was her “logical compatibility.”  She’d rather be somebody’s genuine friend as herself, than somebody’s life partner because of all of her advantageous bullet points.

Molly squared her shoulders and started in a steely tone again.  “To wit, I told to you twice that the risks far outweighed the benefits, with an unlikely success rate—“

“Like a machine,” she thought she heard Sherlock muttered resentfully, but Molly was certain that she hadn’t heard him say that.  For if Sherlock had said that, she would have had to retrieve the riding crop again, even if he had subtly pushed it under her refrigerator with his heel.

“And now, my mum has called seventeen times because she thinks we are engaged.  Mum, who has knitted mittens for her future grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great great grandchildren, thinks I’m engaged!  Sherlock!”

“Preparedness is an admirable trait in a future in law—what are y— Okay, wrong thing to say, I see that now, put down the chair, Molly.”

“Tactically, I just don’t understand why she’d go for the chair when the meat mallet is right there on the counter,” Mary pointed out, genuinely puzzled.  John nodded his agreement, but coughed “Not now” again any way.

Sherlock grimaced at this commentary.  “Perhaps we should carry on this conversation elsewhere.”

Molly agreed.  She sighed and walked over on the last space next to Mary, leaving the overstuffed chair across from them for Sherlock. 

“Without the audience, is what I meant,” Sherlock groused as he took the seat.

“We’re here to ensure no murders take place…or to bear witness, should a murder take place,” Mary stated brightly, as if it were her plan all along. 

“I told him it would be a bad idea,” John added, leaning forward to speak to Molly as well.  “Told him last night.  Badgering Mycroft to stop the presses to insert an ‘emergency announcement’—just poor form, really—“

“Yes, but you were also the one who told me to very plainly ask Molly out in no uncertain terms, so your advice record is shoddy at best, John,” Sherlock interrupted darkly.

The doctor sighed.  “I didn’t think you’d do it with a text.  Nor such a long email,” he explained as if talking to a dullard.  Sherlock’s nostrils flared ever so slightly, and Molly concluded it was good for him to get a taste of his own medicine.  Never mind that his impression of a livid bull was just _adorable_.

“As an attachment, Sherlock, honestly,” Mary lamented. 

“You two are hilarious.  Really, take the show on the road.  Molly and I will raise Helena and maybe she’ll have a small chance of becoming a well adjusted adult,” Sherlock suggested scathingly.

“But they have a point!  How can you accuse me of being ‘like a machine’ when I was just trying to be as clinical as you were!  Seventeen bullet points and a graph as to why I should acquiesce to your second request for a date?” Molly pointed out.  “It’s hardly the stuff of Cartland paperbacks.”

Three weeks ago, Sherlock texted her during her lunch break and asked if she would like to have dinner that evening with him.  Molly had texted back a “What for?” because as far as she knew, there were no cases that needed her involvement.  He promptly responded that the purpose of the dinner would be food consumption and transition from friendship to romance.  Also, before she asked dull questions, he had no idea what they’d be eating because he’d have Mrs. Hudson prepare something, and yes, he was being serious.

Molly had been speechless.  Well, that was partly true; she started squeaking, panicked, and fluttering about her office like mad.  Mike actually popped in to ask if there was a mouse. 

The dry, plain text message was the culmination of years of dreaming, fantasizing, and yearning…all the feelings she had thought had died out suddenly flooded to the surface, making her blush hotly all over.  To think!  Just last week they were bickering about the moral implications of cerebral microchips, fighting over the last crisps, and laughing over bad television shows and now—

She had paused in her squeaky pacing.  Now, she was back to stammering Molly, the Molly Sherlock disdained.  She’d be a nervous wreck for every date, every row, until he grew tired of it.  There would be awkwardness, loss of friendship, and possibly a transfer to the Orkney Islands to get away from the tragedy of it all.

So Molly had steeled herself, taken a deep breath, and sent back: “No, I don’t think it would be wise.”  After some stilted awkwardness (which she felt further supported her refusal), their friendship warmed and continued seamlessly until the email he had sent her yesterday morning. 

“You said you did not think it would be wise!” Sherlock argued now.  “Ergo, you had to be shown why it would be wise because you don’t know better!”

“I do know better!  I’ve had more experience with relationships than you’ve had!” Molly retorted.

“More experience with failing in them,” he dismissed this carelessly. 

She grabbed a cushion and would have launched herself at him to smother his stupid, handsome face if not for Mary restraining her around her waist.  Lord, reflexes of a cat, that one.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “A bit—“

“Not good,” he and Sherlock said, the former tiredly and the latter impatiently.

The consulting detective continued, “Yes, yes, I know, John!  If you two would just leave us, Molly can offer her opinion and I can elucidate why she’s wrong.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Molly said to herself sadly, quietly.  “If not today, then someday, and they’ll give me a prison sentence and a bloody medal.”

John pursed his lips and observed the man before him.  Despite the usual, childish sulks Sherlock was displaying, his best friend saw the new and uncomfortable doubt in his posture and expression.   He was vulnerable, and hated every second of it.

“Maybe,” John began uncertainly, “we should…”

“No!” Molly squeaked.  “Stay!”

“Molly,” Sherlock warned in a low tone, “You do not want me to say what I have to say in front of others.”

“Don’t I?” she challenged.

He answered her defiant expression with a raised eyebrow.  “You want them to hear how you are falsely accusing me of ulterior motives and offering the paltry excuse of ‘high risks’ to refuse my suit because you’ve turned coward?”

It was Molly’s turn to flare her nostrils with barely restrained rage.  “You…you…you just want a body!”  She had gotten a bit of her own back since she and Sherlock restarted their friendship, and so refusing him body parts had become easier.  Clearly, he wanted to up the ante and use “romance” as leverage.

He tilted his head and considered this. “I am attracted to yours, yes, but it’s not the only reason I’ve decided to pursue you.  I’m not just interested in a body that lacks personality and an impressive mind.  I’m not John.”

Mary grabbed a cardboard coaster from the table and threw it with impressive accuracy and speed at Sherlock’s face.

“Oh, I meant his exes, obviously,” Sherlock bit out, rubbing his nose tenderly.  John guffawed.

“You threw that rather like a ninja,” Molly noticed, impressed.  “All spinning like.”

“Did I?  Lucky I guess,” Mary chuckled nervously.  The two men added their artificial laughter too quickly, and Molly looked at them confusedly. 

“And no, this isn’t a ruse for anything.  I actually do want to marry you.”

“Oh will you pack it in, Sherlock!”

“Do y’know,” John spoke up, “he has explicitly told me that he’ll only go so far for a ruse.  Granted, he had just faked a proposal when he said it—“

“Not helping,” Mary sang under her breath.  Molly sighed miserably.  It was Mary’s turn to observe the pathologist.  Although the reluctant fiancée was clearly angry, and heartily disgusted with his methods, Mary could not help but note the way her body relaxed when her gaze did flit back to the consulting detective, and how she bit her lip in apparent admiration when she looked upon him.

“Yeah,” Mary suddenly said, standing and dragging her husband with her.  “We should probably go, then, since nobody’s going to get killed here today.”

“But why?” Molly demanded fearfully.

“Work.  Work and…baby.  Oh yes, I have a baby!” 

“Oh Mary, you needn’t lie to them,” John scolded.

“But we _do_ have a baby!  And work!”

“Oh right, yeah,” John laughed as they walked to the door.  “But we’re leaving because Sherlock wants to bare his soul but not with us here.  Also, Molly will continue to hide how tempting she finds this offer as long as we stay.  So, we have to go.”

“Wish you hadn’t taught him how to observe,” Molly told Sherlock sullenly.  Sherlock dismally nodded his agreement and the pair watched them leave. 

A sudden and discomforting silence fell then.  The sunlight was too bright and the flat too still.  Molly observed his perfect appearance once more—red marks of injury notwithstanding—and became self-conscious.  Fretfully, she gave her nervous fingers some work and braided her damp hair into a messy side braid.  It was a frizzy disaster, and she had nothing to tie it with, but it was welcome distraction. 

 “Okay,” she addressed the coffee table.  “Fine.  Adults.  I want you to know that I am not a coward.  It’s not cowardly, it’s _prudent_ , to consider all the risks involved when starting a new relationship, and I…I…I don’t want to transfer to the Orkney Islands!” What began as a measured, even justification rapidly disintegrated into irrational tears.  Molly shook her head at her silliness as she buried her face in her hands.

Sherlock was at her side in an instant, eyes wide with alarm.  “They’re transferring you!?  To the Orkney Islands?  Why?  People don’t die there; people don’t live there!”

“Twenty of the islands are inhabited, Sherlock,” she informed him with a sniffle.  Okay, maybe she had done some panicked, premature research. 

“I’ll kill them!” Sherlock seethed as he gathered her in his arms.  “How dare they?”  Seeing him so disquieted made her own anxiety slowly seep out of her, until she was wiping her eyes with the faintest tinge of amusement shining through.

“Who?”

“The powers that be, whoever is transferring you—“

“Oh, I’m not getting transferred!  That was just my imagination jumping ahead like mad.”  Now that that small overreaction was out of the way, Molly fully expected him to release her as she leaned back—god, he smelled lovely—but was surprised to find herself trapped within his arms. 

Instead of noticing her gentle attempts to disengage herself, Sherlock only relaxed against the cushions and laughed quietly.  “Well, my imagination was wondering if there are any other cases to solve in the Orkney Islands that don’t involve livestock.”  At her open mouthed astonishment, he raised a brow.  “Of course, Molly, I go where you go.”

Now she did pull away and braced herself on the arm rest.  “Oh stop it, please!”  Sherlock reached for her but she shot out one hand to keep him at bay.  “You don’t go from thinking me insipid with thin lips to believing me worthy of relocation to the outskirts of Scotland!”

His eyes settled on her frown.  “You were never insipid; just talkative.  And I like your lips.”

She rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might detach from the retinas.  “Sherlock, you don’t have to lie—“

“The Woman has thin lips,” he interrupted, his blue gaze half unfocussed as he remembered the past.  Molly stilled, knowing, somehow without any solid reason, that this was the body she hated, the body he had identified.  The body who, in life, had made an indelible impression on Sherlock Holmes, in a way she never could.

“I—I don’t…”

“She paints them, of course, as you do sometimes, but nonetheless, they were small.  Nobody noticed because of her confidence.  I thought her the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, thin lips and all.”

Well, she had about enough heart-stomping today.  Molly sighed and warned in a low voice, “Sherlock…”

She tried to conceal the wounded quality in her voice with shallow irritation, but knew she had not quite succeeded when his eyes snapped back to the present, and met her gaze with unnerving intensity.  “I _thought_.  Past tense, Molly.  I saw her a handful of times when I made that conclusion.   But you.”  He leaned closer, and since the arm rest would not allow her to lean further back, Molly soon felt the warmth of his words on her cheek, and could count the flecks of green in his irises. 

“You I have had the chance—the _privilege_ to see for ages.  For years.  And every day I do, you somehow appear even better than the last time I saw you.  So you, with your thin lips, and small hands, and just ridiculous wrinkles in your nose,” He laughed softly to himself when she grumpily wrinkled her nose just then.  “And your kindness, and your humour—“

“You told me I had the most appalling sense of humour in the hemisphere!” she reminded him impishly.  Oh, she had to joke!  If she didn’t, she’d turn into a weepy, soppy mess with a runny nose, and it would absolutely spoil the moment.

“I said that because you called me Churlock.  You know I detest puns,” he said with a tiny pout.  “But don’t change the subject simply because you’re becoming uncomfortable with the truth.”

“And what is the truth?”  Molly made herself ask, even though she was shaking with adrenaline. 

“You know it already, how I feel, about your…of the…  Of all your, erm, components?  No, right, that was bad.  Your qualities.  Personality-wise and physically…and your everything …you, Molly Emmaline Hooper, are the most beautiful—the loveliest—“ Sherlock swallowed, for once struggling with words.  “This is difficult—writing was easier.  Listen to me Molly.  You are the _best_ woman I’ve ever seen.”

Oh my god I love him.

This morning Molly might’ve acknowledged the same sentiment but in a platonic sense.  But seeing the fearful sincerity in his eyes, she had to admit the truth—she still loved him, wholeheartedly.  Still harbored all those feelings of awe and lust and pure devotion to him, except this time everything she felt was now apparently mutual.

Any other man would have observed her misting eyes, her trembling chin, and radiant, beatific smile and taken the opportunity to kiss her.  But Sherlock was Sherlock; when he had an analysis to offer, hell nor high water could prevent it from coming out.

“Your refusals hinged on the hypothesis that our relationship would not succeed.  I understand your scepticism, and it is largely the fault of my past behaviour.  I am not a new man.  I am still, as John puts it, a massive cock.  But I can make strides, Molly, to adjust.  You’ve seen it.  And I’ve seen you, not become a new Molly, but be the Molly you’ve always been.  You just…”

“Had to stop caring what you think,” Molly finished with a sad grin.  “Yeah.  Weird, that.  I had to stop caring to make you start, in the end.”  She bit her lip thoughtfully before a sporadic burst of courage prompted her to ask, “But we’ve been on equal footing for a while…what changed?”

He gave a little gorgeous smile, with only the left corner of his lips quirking up.  “You would have married Peter, if not for his stance on sprogs.”

Oh lord Peter.  How on earth could she have thought Peter was worth the amount of tears she had shed?  Compared to what was singing in her veins right now for Sherlock, her regard for Peter was a distant wisp of a memory’s shadow. 

Still, she had to admit, “Yeah, I would have.”  She had been ready to settle, because she thought she wasn’t getting any younger, and the one she truly wanted would never want her.

“And I would have let you,” he confessed, oddly hoarse with the truth.  “Because I want you to be happy, Molly, no matter with whom.  And when the opportunity arose for you to be happy with me, I felt a strange sort of fear, as if—as if I did not grasp this chance, and persevere with every fibre of my being, I would live a kind of stale, half life.  Does that—does it make sense, now that I say it aloud?”

He spoke haltingly, like a child reciting a lesson far beyond his level of study, and yet every word landed so perfectly within her heart.  Filled with too much emotion to properly articulate her jubilant response, she just nodded and tried to clear her throat around the sentimental lump that had grown there. 

As he had done in the past, Sherlock waited until her eyes were done “leaking,” but with infinitely more patience than on previous occasions.  The waterworks took some time to abate, and even Molly had to have a soggy laugh at herself. 

“God, why am I crying?” she chuckled, wiping at the fat drops rolling down her cheeks. 

“You’re deliriously happy because now’s your chance to do what you’ve always planned on doing once I gave my declaration of love?” he hazarded hopefully.

“Namely, pounce on you and shag you rotten, yeah,” Molly giggled.  She laughed even louder when Sherlock gave a roguish smile that welcomed such a proposal.  “But…I can’t do that Sherlock.”

“Of course, we’d wait until after the nuptials,” he teased.  The mention of marriage lessened her smile a bit, and he astutely guessed why.  “The announcement was a little hasty.  But not illogical.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to justify announcing our nonexistent engagement without my permission?”

“I thought it wise to show you the result, to show there was no risk.  _I_ wouldn’t go on a first date with anybody unless I knew to what end.”

“And you decided to show ‘what end’ by publishing an announcement for all the world to see?” Molly asked disbelievingly.  “A bit dramatic, Sherlock, even for you.”  His expression conveyed the fact that he saw nothing extraordinary in his actions; Molly guessed that, if he ever reproduced, he’d announce the birth of his firstborn with fireworks and a banner on the moon.

“If the swoon to the kitchen floor hasn’t caused too much cranial damage, you’ll recall a certain pathologist complaining about the lack of transparency of potential suitors’ objectives.”  When she scoffed again—for clearly Molly hadn’t meant a _literal_ announcement of intentions when she ranted about that—Sherlock abandoned his uppity rationalising and asked with sincere vexation, “What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, an actual proposal usually precedes a published announcement, _dear_.”

He said as if it were painfully obvious, “But I’d have needed your consent if I proposed first, _love_.”

“You needed my consent for the sodding announcement, you bloody—“ Molly stopped herself, and exhaled deeply, just as John often did when he reached his limit. 

While she conducted these breathing exercises, Sherlock muttered, “What does it matter?  You’ve refused every time.”

Molly, having calmed down enough to relax next to him, said patiently, “I refused because it didn’t sound real—no, no, not in that way.  I meant, it sounded so…Vulcan.  Rational.   The email sounded like a research proposal!  We’re compatible politically, personally, physically, financially, and professionally.  Bob’s your uncle, let’s pair up.  I wasn’t sure if you really fancied me, Sherlock, or if you were just taking what you perceived to be the next reasonable step in life.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “there’s nothing reasonable about love.”  Molly frowned at him.  “Obviously, I would have delivered my requests in modes less…”

“Boring?  Gutless?”

“ _Formal._  A verbal declaration like the one I just accidentally gave now would evidently have been more persuasive.  But you, Molly, have an adverse effect on my communication skills.  Several times before I texted, I attempted to ‘ask you out’ as the banal saying goes, but found myself curiously flummoxed.”

“Really?” she asked excitedly.  “I like that!”

“I despised it.  One time I did manage to get the basic words out, I belatedly discovered you had left the lab thirty minutes prior and I had snagged a dinner date with the custodian.”

Oscar had been rather smug for a while last month, now that she thought about it. 

Sherlock wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.  She looked up at him and sighed. 

 “Sherlock…you can’t manoeuvre me.”

“I only budged you an inch closer, it’s hardly ‘manoe—“

“No, I mean—well, if you’re still interested, we’re going to do this properly.”

Sherlock’s expression brightened, an unrepentant gleam shining in his blue gaze.  His smirk alone was enough to rouse some alarm in her, and Molly was quick to add, “You’re going to ask me out.  We’ll get to know one another—and don’t say it’s unnecessary, because trust me.  Relationship-Molly is different from Friend-Molly.  You’ve no idea what I’m like after a double shift and PMS-ing.  And now that I know that you actually do fancy me—“

“Love,” he corrected stubbornly. 

“Yes,” she allowed delicately, “I am willing to say that marriage is a possibility.  Not a guarantee.  Let’s see how we do with dinners and the like, yeah? Then, if we still fancy each other, we’ll try cohabitation.  And after a few years or so, we’ll discuss an engagement.  If one of us starts contemplating how to murder the other, we have to break it off.  Those are the steps I want to take.”

“You were engaged to Tristan in less than two years!”

“And do you want to meet the same fate as Tom?”

“How many fiancés did you rack up have whilst I was dead?!”

Molly laughed helplessly, “Shut up Sherlock.”  He beamed at her, much like she did when one of her corny jokes provoked a rare laugh from him. 

“Fine.  Oh and, clean slate, I’ve already planned how to murder you.  Then again, maybe a romantic angle would change the method.”

Molly smiled, and admitted, “Me too.”  Actually, she had come up with several gruesome scenarios, but that would probably hurt his feelings, and she kept that to herself.  Still, it was nice that she could even discuss theoretical murders without a man paling in fear.  “So I give you permission to take me out, Sherlock Holmes.  Just no more manipulative schemes for romantic coercion, okay?”

He almost readily agreed, but then paused.  “It might be difficult for me.  I don’t even realise I’m being ‘manipulative’ sometimes until John calls me a prick.”

Molly digested the truth, and nodded reluctantly.  “Fair point.  Like how I’ll doubt myself sometimes, and I’ll expect you to not be horrible about it.  All right; all I’m asking is for you to _try_ not to manipulate me—just ask before you assume a scheme is in order.  You’d be surprised, you know, how often the direct approach succeeds.”

Sherlock smiled, worryingly devious, as he swiftly leaned down and pressed his lips against hers.  Good lord they were soft, and sweet, and…not leaving her mouth…Molly tried to say that this was exactly the kind of manipulation she had just forbidden, but then he just took the opportunity to deepen the kiss—where the hell did he learn to snog like this?—she had to breathe, but that meant not kissing Sherlock, and if she had to choose between respiration and kissing Sherlock—oh god, Molly, those are some pathetic priorities!

Then there was no possibility for more panicky thinking, for his hands, which had been gently cupping her jaw, slid down and mapped the slight curves of her body as he brought her closer to him.  Briefly, they were a tangle of limbs and torsos until he pushed her down beneath him, and pressed himself into her.  All the while, his mouth became more aggressive, harder, _hungrier_ until all art and method was lost, and it was just a clash of teeth and gasps and tongues.  His fingers spanned and tightened, learning the contours of her body with irresistible precision.  Her legs stretched and curled, purposely pressing up her hips so that she methodically drove him to incoherence.  He groaned, and she became undone at the sound of Sherlock losing control, especially when he pulled away and bit her neck; then she made an animalistic noise that ought not have been made in daylight—

“—for dinner?”

Oh god, had he been speaking?  Had she been supine and stunned, mouth open, while he pulled away and asked her out?

She owlishly opened her eyes to find Sherlock hovering over her, braced by his elbows on either side of her head.  Judging by his highly amused expression, yes, gaping like a landed fish was exactly what she had been doing. Her hands had clearly been busy as well, for his hair was a wild nest above his flushed face.

“Let’s go now,” she agreed quickly, sliding to the side and then stumbling as she raced to her room to get her shoes.

“But it’s only half three!”

“Sherlock, the sooner I let you buy me a meal, the sooner I can shag you rotten!” she laughed as she laid belly down on her mattress in search of some flats just under the foot of her bed.  It was maybe the truth; all Molly knew was she wanted to continue snogging the mysteriously talented Sherlock, and who knew where that would lead?  “I just need to find my sh—“

Before she quite knew what had happened, Sherlock had popped her silliest pair of club heels on her feet and had picked her up to carry her out the flat.  She shrieked with laughter as he carried her through the throng of fans and reporters, who had clearly twigged there was no bomb.  Her glee didn’t end when he chucked her into a cab, and she could barely contain her mirth when they stopped outside Angelo’s. 

“Ah, so you are to be Mrs. Holmes!” the friendly owner said in greeting to her. 

“Uh, maybe,” Molly said uncertainly, and then met Sherlock’s watchful eyes across the table. 

“We’re taking it slow,” Sherlock and Molly said happily.

 

* * *

 


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness gracious, I completely forgot the disclaimer! So here goes: I do not own Sherlock & company. They are the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, and have been temporarily borrowed here for purely entertainment, nonprofit reasons.
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind kudos, comments, and words of welcome! I haven't been around the block much, but I've never seen such a nice fandom. 
> 
> Also: It's come to my attention that ciders are supposed to be a bit stronger than implied in my story. Maybe I've simply had the wrong kinds. Either way, I'm sorry for the mistake!

**Epilogue**

**_14 months later…_ **

“Why aren’t we slowing down?”  Molly demanded in a squeak.

The brave little Peugeot was careening down the curves of the road that hugged the side of the eroding cliffs.  Bad enough that the rain made the roads so slick, but the choppy waters of the ocean added unneeded spray, hindering the gray, soaked view through the windshield.

“Damn!” Sherlock growled through clenched teeth.  “The brake line must have been cut!”

That was one of the most ridiculous things she had ever heard in her life.  Nobody said that outside of films!  “Are you having me on?”

“Do use your brain, Molly; we’ve stolen the victim’s car, the same victim who was not as dead as everybody had hoped.  Of course there’s already another attempt on her life.”

“Well, now what?”

Molly clenched so tightly on the door handle that she thought she could break it in half.  Sherlock wasn’t saying anything.  That wasn’t good.  He was either in his Mind Palace or he had run out of ideas.  Either way, with the downward slope of the road and the sheets of rain, Molly could feel the tilt of the lifting wheels more and more with every curve. 

“There’s a very narrow right bend coming up in a few miles.”  Sherlock was using his ‘Stay calm even though I’m inwardly panicking’ voice.  “I don’t think we’ll stay on the road for it, Molly.  Just below will be another road and then the port.  If we don’t bounce off the pavement, maybe we’ll—“

“Oh god, no,” she breathed, the enormity of the impending crash robbing her of the adrenaline that had fueled her throughout the dangerous investigation.  “Sherlock—“

He took one hand off the wheel and blindly grabbed for hers.  She grasped his fingers and squeezed tight.  Gruffly, he continued.

“It will be difficult, but if you could relax your body at the moment of impact, it will lessen the chance of breaking your bones—what am I saying, you’re a pathologist, you know this!  Just—just lean into me, Molly, and it will be okay.”

He sounded frustrated with himself, and worried for her.  They were hurtling to almost certain death and he was using his last words to try to comfort her.  He unbuckled his seat belt and she knew that he was going to futilely cover her body to shield her from harm. 

“Oh god, I wish I married you,” she whispered, barely audible above the drumming rain on the car roof.  “I should’ve married you and lived with you and never gone another day without being your wife.”

Sherlock frowned, and they held their breath as he managed a fairly easy turn.  But they saw, in the distance, the impossible curve, one that drivers with working brakes still had trouble managing. 

“Molly, please don’t talk like we’re going to die today.”

“Sherlock—“

“Molly, I love you, but if you keep talking like that, I’ll have tell you to shut up.  And you refused sex with me the last time I did that, so—”

“Oh, all right!  But just know—if we survive—“

“When,” he ground out stubbornly, letting go of her hand to execute the second to last arc before their doom.

“When we survive, I’m going to marry your brains out, Sherlock Holmes.”

He gave a laugh, and to her everlasting dismay, it sounded choked with tears.  She didn’t want to die with the thought of him weeping.  “I thought the step before that was cohabitation!” he pointed out, tragically trying to make a joke of it.  What was even sadder was moving in was an issue with which they had been wrestling for the past two months.  It all seemed so silly now; to think, she had wanted to avoid living together because of the cliché fear his love would wane in the face of her constant presence. 

Molly’s smile was tremulous.  “That too, then!” she added firmly.

“Promise?”

“Promise!”

She grabbed for his hand again, and he let her take it.  Sherlock Holmes’ pathologist and partner focused on the fact that he kissed her fingers with shaking lips instead of the fact that the almost certain end loomed closer, and closer…

And then the car lurched across the right lane and onto the shoulder, coming to a rough, skidding halt after he jerked the e-brake up.  And then the pillock put the car in Park.

Molly blinked several times, looking around them.  It was still raining mercilessly, and the sea still grasped at them greedily, and Sherlock was…

Not weeping.  Nor was he very worried.  In fact, he was smiling complacently.  “There now.  Was that so hard?”

Molly reared back as far as the small space allowed and punched his nose.

 

* * *

  

“Pretended the brake lines were cut then, did you?  No wait—the lines _were_ cut, but poorly by an amateur.  Small enough leak to allow some drivability, and you used the emergency brake when you had a chance.”

“Well done, John. Did you deduce that or did Molly tell you?  Oh, I’m sure Molly told you; you’re not that clever.”

“Normally, I’d have trouble understanding you with all that blood and padding clogging things up, but you’ve been punched so often now...”

“Funny.  Arrested the suspect?”

“Yeah, yeah, Lestrade got your text.  And you?  Got what you wanted?”

“She did finally promise to move in, John.  Under duress, yes, but I’m holding her to it.”

“No need to sound so smug.  She’s pissed off.  I wouldn’t try another stunt like this for another year if I were you.”

“Hmm.”

“And did she say she’d move in, or just that you’d live together?”

“Semantics.  If you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure Molly’s recovered from her shock—“

“You have to ring Billy Wiggins and tell your sponsored tramps to stop moving Molly’s things into your flat.”

“Yup.”

 

The End

 


End file.
